


Asteraceae

by kuri (esmaier)



Category: IDOLiSH7 (Video Game)
Genre: (+3 years from start of canon ages), Aged-Up Character(s), Angst, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Pining, Slow Burn, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-08
Updated: 2016-05-14
Packaged: 2018-05-12 13:50:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5668300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esmaier/pseuds/kuri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>flowershop + assassin au</p><p>If only.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

[ _march_ ]

* * *

 

The sun is just beginning to show signs of setting, the soft blue darkening and becoming tainted with hints of red, when Iori pushes open the door to a modest flower shop, calling a short greeting as the bell chimes above his head.

Not seeing an employee at the front counter, and receiving no response to his entrance, he opts to browse, letting velvet petals slip between his fingers as he runs his hand across the colorful tops of flowers while he walks down the few isles, contemplating what flowers his parents would enjoy this time.

Flowers were not something Iori was particularly adept at understanding, but after being absent for so long, the purchases from various flower shops to brighten the grey seemed like a small but somehow acceptable apology.

“Are you looking for something?” A muffled voice chirps from behind Iori and he whirls around, squashing the reflex to lash out with an arm to the employee’s neck.

He’s met with hair redder than the sunset taking place past the employee and eyes to match, though this combo is the last thing from alarming. Instead, the features visible from behind the face mask across the lower half of the other’s face are soft and friendly, though filled with mild concern.

“...Flowers,” Iori answers, belatedly, when he finally realizes that the root of the concern was his lack of response.

“Well, obviously,” is the wry response, and Iori can’t help but snap back, something in the soft features making him irritable.

“Says you,” he shoots at the employee, “You’re the one asking me the question with an obvious answer.”

“I meant what kind of flowers,” the redhead amends, pulling the mask aside so it hangs from one ear “After all, I do own this shop.”

Iori stares blankly, taken aback by the sudden force of the bright smile on the other’s face, reminded further of the setting sun, but the moment he finds himself beginning to be overwhelmed, he turns his head away from the other’s gaze back down to the flowers he had been looking at earlier. “Purple hyacinth,” he answers curtly.

“Wishing for forgiveness, regret, sorrow,” the flower shop owner recites, his eyebrows travelling further up his forehead with each sub-definition, and Iori flushes, never having considered that florists would also know the meaning behind the single flower that Iori regularly purchased. “I won’t ask,” he pushes on, the smile on his face softening as he brushes past Iori, a single slim finger hooking the mask behind his ear as he leans over to gently pluck stems of the flower from the bunch.

Iori watches with curiosity as stems are separated, examined, some rejected and laid across the shelf above while others are gently clamped in the florist’s free hand, before he suddenly shuffles sideways, plucking a small set of deep reddish purple flowers whose edges fade softly into white and adding it to his hand as he walks quickly to the counter, setting to trimming and wrapping them, leaving Iori to scramble after him.

“On me, as an apology for speaking without thinking,” the florist explains, having the decency to flush a little in what Iori presumes is embarrassment, as he rings Iori up for his purchase, handing him the neatly wrapped collection of flowers.

“Thank you,” Iori responds genuinely, pausing briefly at the door as he walks out, “By the way, Nanase-san,  you may want to leave your name tag on, for future customers.”

Before Riku has a chance to splutter out a response, Iori is gone.

 

* * *

 

Just minutes pass between the soft click of the door closing and the chime of the bell as it opens again giving way to a tired figure who manages a smile at the chirp of “Ten-nii!” that greets him.

“Riku,” he returns, locking the door behind him and checking it, once, twice, before walking over to his brother, pressing his nose briefly into soft hair as arms wrap contentedly around him.

“Riku,” he repeats, and when Ten receives an affirmative hum from his brother he pulls himself away, offering a teasing smile,  “So you were arranging the gloxinia? Anyone in mind?” laughing as Riku fumbles in indignation. “I was kidding. Let’s clean up and head upstairs,” he motions to the shop and heads  behind the counter and into the back room, assisting in the end of the day cleanup, despite Riku’s protests from the counter where he’s tidying up. “It’s faster with the two of us, isn’t it?” Ten counters easily as the two head upstairs to the modest flat above the shop where they live together, and had since their parents death five years prior.

“It’s not fair, to make you do more work, not when you’ve just gotten back from your other job,” Riku argues back, pushing the door at the top of the stairway open. After all, it was because of him Ten-nii had even taken on the second job while still working at the flower shop in his spare time. Not that he knew what said second job was, but Riku never felt it right to pry, not when he was already causing Ten-nii stress and trouble, and certainly not when Ten-nii looked so tired yet smiled for him.

 

* * *

 

By the time Iori pushes open the squeaking door to the apartment where he currently lives, any traces of red have long since disappeared from the sky, fading to a deep midnight blue. The moment he steps through the doorway, he’s promptly slapped across the back and pulled into a one armed hug.

“Nikaido-san,” Iori deadpans as he turns his head to look up into the face of the resident hacker and base control master, “Where are Nii-san and Rokuya-san?”

“On a job,” is the whimsical answer as Yamato pulls away from Iori, heading towards the small kitchen immediately to their right.

The moment Yamato’s words sink in, Iori lets out what he’s sure is an alarmed noise, “A job? They’re not supposed to take jobs without me as their backup--what are they going to do if there’s an enemy that they’re unable to anticipate-- and you, Nikaido-san, how can you take things so lightly if--”

“Ichi, calm the fuck down, I was kidding, they’re just out getting dinner,” Yamato drawls from the kitchen, leaning over the counter as he snaps his can of beer open. Iori opts to not dignify that with an answer, dropping his schoolbag onto the floor of the small living room, avoiding the coffee table where numerous monitors are set up so he can drop himself onto the couch.

The apartment is small, but affordable and inconspicuous, but Iori just likes to consider it cozy. It meant he could return to his childhood hometown, if only briefly, before they’ll have to move. Again. As usual. Unfortunate but necessary requirements of the job.

Just as Iori settles down, the front door is assaulted with a storm of knocking and irritated grumbles and the occasional yell, but before either Iori or Yamato move to open it, the numerous locks click in succession as two figures, both carrying small stacks of boxes and bags, the top of his nii-san’s head just barely visible. Nii-san is rather similar to his preferred weapon of choice, Iori thinks. Small, seemingly harmless, but explosive, whether it be personality or effect.

“MI-TSU-KI DON’T DROP THE FOOD,” the other shouts as he shoves his way past Mitsuki, gracefully kicking the door shut with his foot and setting his bags down to redo the locks on the door. Rokuya Nagi, another whose weapons fit him. Again, deceptive in that Rokuya-san and his choice are seemingly plain in appearance yet possess a surprising grace and power.

Mitsuki yells back, equally loud, “SAYS YOU, YOU’RE THE ONE WHO ALMOST DROPPED THE DESSERT ON THE WAY BACK.”

Deception is something they can’t escape, Iori finds. Whether because it’s part of their line of work, or because it’s human nature, he doesn’t know.

“Both of you just need to calm down, have a beer!” Is Yamato’s utterly useless input, his first words ruined by the latter, and the fact that he’s laughing.

But it doesn’t matter, not to Iori. Because amongst them all, they know each other, trust each other, and, Iori is aware, cannot live without each other. There’s no dramatic love amongst them, no fictitious happy ending, and there won’t be, not for any of them.

Not when their entire being depends on their abilities to take the lives of others.  
  
Iori stands, walking over to take the boxes from Mitsuki before he can actually drop them, and Iori can’t help but smile when his brother beams at him. Their futures may not be bright, but Iori thinks he wouldn’t have this any other way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "small man, big boom" -my roommate, describing Mitsuki
> 
> This was kinda rushed, admittedly. I didn't want to post the first chapter until I had written at least half so I could post regularly, but then IoRiku day punched me in the face (it's still 1/7 here, I promise!) so I apologize in advance for delayed next chapter...
> 
> Beta by [Seigyoku @ Ao3](http://archiveofourown.org/users/seigyoku)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentioned before, but apologies for delay, anyway.

[ _may_ ]

 

* * *

 

Iori wouldn’t give up his life for anything, really. He’s perfectly content, even happy with how things are. As long as he is able to stay with Mitsuki, as long the stability he exists in currently does not waver greatly, Iori is fine.

Except days like this, when he was out late finishing up a job and stayed up even later to finish his assignments, only to wake up and find out no one has done the grocery shopping. Again. He makes a mental note to himself to stop by the store on the way home from university as he walks out the door, taking in the warming weather on his way to class.

Quiet mornings, before most are awake, and after the initial rush of salarymen hustling to work, are Iori’s favorite, and part of the reason he opts for morning classes. There’s a certain peace to the relative silence, unlike the stuffy stress filling the lecture halls at school or the stifling pressure that surrounds him when he’s on a job, sitting alone for hours on end, constantly alert, because he knows the moment he loses focus, everything could fall apart.

 

* * *

 

As much as he enjoys his classes, there’s something that prevents Iori from being able to fully invest himself in them. Perhaps it’s the knowledge that he is unlikely to pursue a major career in whatever he studies, but there’s also more to it. It lies in when he looks around at his peers, listening to them talk about this party or that, or how they’re excited to go home the next weekend to see their parents and friends back home; to him, there is something unreal about it, yet it is something he also craves.

He contemplates this as he walks through the aisles of the grocery store, scrolling through the memo on his phone, wondering if he forgot anything, and waiting for the inevitable last-second response to the notice he had sent to the others about needing anything. In the end, Iori is so caught up in calculating prices for fresh fennel in comparison to dried fennel and searching websites on his phone, he doesn’t notice the figure stopped a few feet away from him. When it comes to his attention that he’s blocking the way, he fumbles with the plant he’s holding, apologies halfway out of his mouth before he realizes he’s looking into the sweetly smiling face of the florist from before.

“I don’t believe I ever caught your name,” the florist speaks first, the same bright smile still on his face, “and I’d offer to shake your hand, but it seems you’re having some issue with the fennel there.”

Iori flushes, realizing the florist had caught his fumble, and drops the plant into his basket, sticking his hand out in a stiff movement, “Izumi Iori, it’s nice to see you again, Nanase-san.”

“Riku is fine,” the florist responds, shaking Iori’s hand in a gentle yet firm grasp, and Iori struggles briefly to not focus on how soft Riku’s hand is, aside from little cuts and scratches Iori can feel under his fingertips, almost relieved when Riku pulls his hand back.

“Nanase-san,” Iori repeats instead, somewhat amused by the smallest bit of irritation that flickers across Riku’s face, “have you finished your shopping?”  

“Ah,” Riku glances down at his basket, distracted, “Almost. I just have to pick up a few more herbs because, I, uh, kinda knocked over the spice cabinet…” he trails off as he looks to the side, apparently embarrassed.

Iori suppresses a small laugh, “What do you need? I’m done, and your place is en route, so I don’t mind us walking home together.”

Riku looks up at Iori, his smile back in full force, “Really?! That would be great, grocery shopping isn’t very fun alone, and neither is walking home with just a bunch of bags, even more so when you see all the other people an--”

“Nanase-san,” Iori breaks in, now also smiling, “would you rather we spend the rest of the time in this aisle, because this basket is heavy.”

“Oh! Sorry!” Riku apologizes lightly, turning one foot easily, letting his hand trace down the next aisle they walk down, muttering to himself, “Basil, chamomile, lavender, rosemary…”

Iori trails behind Riku at a slower pace, entranced in watching the florist lose himself in contemplating the herbs and spices. Riku picks up container after container to examine its contents and either set it gently in his basket or shake his head and set it back on the shelf, and Iori is caught in the gentle curve of Riku’s wrist as it peeks from his sleeve, in the subtle differences in emotion that cross his face.

When Riku pauses at the end of the aisle, very obviously trying to remember the last herb he was missing, Iori steps up to just behind Riku, reaching past the other, pulling the last bottle of dried rosemary from it’s shelf, and placing it into Riku’s hand gently. “Rosemary, Nanase-san, you mentioned rosemary.”

 

* * *

 

Iori ends up walking Riku back to the shop, listening as the florist chatters about how this one customer had refused any alstroemeria that had an odd number of petals, or another, earlier in the day that had stood in the shop for an hour simply picking out lilac bunches of a _precise_ shade of purple…

And the nonsensical talk calms Iori in a way. It differs from Mitsuki’s angry yelling and Nagi’s admittedly sometimes incoherent shouting, yet still fills the empty silence Iori is accustomed to when walking home.

As they approach the shop, Riku’s voice slows in time with their steps until they’re stopped just outside the shop, the florist’s hand settled on the door handle. “Ah, Iori,” continuing without noticing Iori’s minute flinch at the use of his given name, “would you, uhm, would you like to come up for a cup of tea, or coffee--or ah, something to drink? As thanks for walking me home, of course!” Riku rushes the last part of his sentence flushing a little, and Iori can’t help but feel flustered for absolutely no reason, fumbling suddenly for an excuse, anything--

“Unfortunately,” and Iori truly, for some reason, finds it unfortunate, “I have to get going.” He gestures vaguely towards the groceries in his hands, “Perhaps some other time...I’ll see you around, Nanase-san.” Then Iori is walking home, perhaps faster than he needs to be walking, but it’s not as if Riku would know, and it’s not as if Iori can feel heat spreading across his face, the only thought crossing through his mind being ‘ _What a cute person.’_

 

* * *

 

It’s days later, when Iori is still contemplating a good excuse to stop by the flower shop instead of focusing on studying for finals, like he should be, that he runs into Riku again. On campus. At his school. Sitting with Tamaki, with whom Iori was meeting up with outside the cafeteria for lunch.

“Nanase-san?” he can’t help but question, his eyes trailing across the rather strange combo of plaid and two-tone pants that Nanase-san is wearing.

“Iorin?” Tamaki questions right back at Iori, looking from one friend to another, apparently very confused, and for good reason.

“Tamaki and I went to the same high school, and I met Iori at the shop!” Riku explains to both easily, looking absolutely delighted at this sudden turn of events.

Iori shifts from one foot to another, uneasily, “Nanase-san, do you also attend this university?” He questions, racking his memory to see if he recalled seeing Riku anywhere, and unable to draw any recollection of bright red hair and the sunny smile.

Riku makes a face, “I don’t have the time to go to school and to manage the shop. Besides, university was never a very appealing option to me.”

Tamaki nods in agreement, and Iori can’t help but huff in exasperation. Tamaki’s grades were something to be rather concerned about, and Iori wasn’t even sure how he had been roped into tutoring Tamaki in his free time. “Can we get lunch now, Iorin? Rikkun, join us.” Before Iori has even a chance to protest, Riku is cheerfully agreeing and Iori is hauled off between the two.

Lunch isn’t particularly unpleasant, quite the opposite, conversation light over less than appetizing school-provided meals, and somehow Iori ends up walking home with Riku at his side, once again filling empty silence with happy and nonsensical words, answering Riku’s questions about Iori’s studies with succinct responses.

“What are you studying?”

“Criminal law.”

“Ohhh sounds cool!! Does that mean you get to, like, study detective stuff?”

“Not really, Nanase-san.”

“Oh...how do you know Tamaki, then? And call me Riku.”

“I tutor him on occasion. Nanase-san.” Iori takes care to tack on the proper address, suppressing a smile at the way Riku’s face twists in irritation as they come to stop. “I suppose this is where we part. I wish you a good rest of the day.”

As he’s turning, Riku reaches out, tugging at Iori’s sleeve and pressing a small slip of paper into his hand, and Iori’s hand closes around in instinctively.

“Good luck on finals, Iori!” Riku squeaks out, unnaturally high, red dusting his cheekbones as he disappears into the shop, the door jingling merrily as it slams shut before Iori has a chance to react.

He glances down at the paper in his hand, and is promptly overwhelmed. Filled with delight, yet simultaneously filled with dread, because he shouldn’t. Shouldn’t be entertaining _this_ , these interactions, these emotions.

  
Iori saves the number into his phone anyways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Laughs into the distance because even though Chapter 3 is more than half written, it'll also be delayed, because I have midterms, an interview, and a convention to attend this next week. Which is unfortunate because this was just a lot of filler...Chapter 3 is where things actually begin to pick up.
> 
> Beta by [Seigyoku @ Ao3](http://archiveofourown.org/users/seigyoku)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> casually tosses a really long chapter to make up for lack of update

[  _june-september_ ]

* * *

 

Finals pass with only brief pain and struggle, and Iori falls into summer easily, his days filled with working an internship at his university’s student services center, lunches or dinners with Riku, jobs here and there with the Pythagoras assassins, random text messages from Riku, getting ahead on schoolwork, and visiting the flower shop where Riku works and lives-- essentially, more Riku than Iori cares to admit or acknowledge.

It’s one of the days they’re sitting together at lunch, Iori having finished his work for the day, perfectly coinciding with Riku’s usual lunch break, that Iori realizes he doesn’t actually know all that much about the florist.

Just as this thought occurs, Riku sets his fork down, and peers at Iori curiously. “You wondered, that one time, how I knew Tamaki. We’ve been here forever, but I’ve only seen you recently.” He counts years on his fingers, “If you’re the same age as Tamaki, that means you’ve just finished your second year...but I never saw you last year, and don’t transfers usually happen after second year?”

Iori looks up, his answer catching on the tip of his tongue. He had answers to almost every logical question someone at school could ask him, but it felt almost wrong to give Riku a lie. Which was absolutely illogical, considering how much of a lie he was living, how much of a lie his entire front towards Riku was.  “I recently moved back into town, I was raised here, but I moved away with family when I was relatively young. And you, Nanase-san?”

It’s not a lie, persay. There is truth to it, though Iori purposely keeps his explanation vague. Riku looks startled at the return of Iori’s question, and as if somehow sensing that Iori likely won’t delve further, skates past any potential awkwardness, and easily falls into summarizing his own life.

“Ah, as you could probably tell, I run the shop! My parents died when I was sixteen, but Ten-nii refused any help from our relatives. I don’t mind though… we’ve always done well on our own. Ten-nii works another job, which is why I mostly watch the shop, but he helps whenever he’s free, and...”

Adoration is clear in Riku’s voice, and Iori has to quash sudden, irrational jealousy over this ‘Ten-nii’ who makes both Riku’s eyes and face light up with very obvious care and love. While Mitsuki and Iori are the last thing from distant, Iori is well aware that he would never be able to express his emotions in such a way to his own brother.

 

* * *

 

Iori finds summer break passing quickly, easily even, with less time to agonize over details, and with Riku’s frightening knack for texting Iori just as he finds himself beginning to delve too deep into his thoughts.

Because he’s refused to think about it, Iori doesn’t notice how much time he’s been spending away until Nagi brings it up once, when they’re all sitting eating dinner together. When Yamato’s instant response is to tease Iori about a possible girlfriend with a shit-eating grin on his face, Iori can’t help but flush, uselessly tossing a napkin at Yamato’s face. It only encourages him to tease more, and Iori groans, burying his head in his hands as Mitsuki scolds Yamato about Iori’s supposedly ‘delicate composition’.

But it makes Iori consider. He contemplates Nagi and Yamato’s words, even as he continues to meet up with Riku, walking him home as he has almost daily for the last couple of months. Think about the florist walking beside him, how Riku’s smile is like the sun, how even the brush of Riku’s hand against his causes Iori to be caught between wanting to flinch and wanting to tangle slim fingers between his own, and the conflict in his thoughts only makes Iori’s heart sink.

“Hey, Iori,” Riku’s voice breaks Iori out of his thoughts, a hand tugging at his wrist causing him to startle, and he turns, blinking when he realizes he’s walked a few steps past the flower shop. There’s a look of concern on Riku’s face, and Iori instantly feels guilty, even though his next gut reaction is to mentally berate himself for even feeling as such. “Iori,” Riku repeats when Iori doesn’t respond right away, “Do you want to come in for a cup of tea or something?” 

“Ah, I think I’ll pass tonight, Nanase-san. Thank you though,” he finishes with a small smile to disguise the fact that Iori can feel every inconsistent press of Riku’s fingers on the skin of his wrist and it makes Iori want to flee. 

“That’s fine,” Riku responds, and when Iori gently tugs his wrist from Riku’s grasp the florist’s hand hesitantly moves to open the door, but it’s not until Riku has one foot through the doorway that he turns, tense, “Uhm, Iori...would perhaps, ah, like to go to the amusement park this Saturday? You don’t work weekends, right? One of our usual customers gave us some free tickets, but Ten-nii is working...You don’t have to say yes though! It’s kind of short notice, I know I know! You’re probably busy, studying, or whatever you do--” 

“Nanase-san,” Iori cuts in, feeling a blush creep across his face, but entertained all the same as Riku’s question rapidly devolves into rambling, “It’s alright. I’m free...and I’d enjoy that. Please text me the details.”

And Iori really does flee then, wondering how it always comes down to this, to him wanting to simply sink to the ground, covering his face, possibly screaming something nonsensical.

 

* * *

 

Saturday morning arrives both more quickly and more slowly than Iori could have ever thought, and he’s not really sure himself how he had managed to get to the store front. Just as he’s about to text Riku that he’s outside, Riku flies out the door, almost knocking Iori over with the force of his hug, his expression one of pure delight. Iori has only just managed to put his arms Riku to steady the florist when he hears the soft click of a camera shutter, and his head snaps to the side, only to be caught unaware once again by the phone in Riku’s hand.

“Nanase-san, what are you doing,” Iori questions flatly, trying to ignore the press of Riku’s body as the florist leans against him, contentedly checking the photos he had just taken. 

“Taking selfies, of course!” Riku says back at Iori in response, peering up at him, red eyes wide, “I’m just really happy you agreed to come!” 

And before he can protest, Riku is already dragging Iori to the station that will take them to the amusement park, and Iori gives up the argument before he can even start it, looking fondly at the figure in front of him pulling him along, hair tousled on one side and plaid collar askew under the plain jacket.

The first thing Riku does when they get past the gates of the amusement park is pull Iori’s arm so the assassin is pressed against the florist, their heads just touching as Riku raises his phone, chirping out a quick “Smile, Iori!” before snapping a photo. Iori blinks against the sunlight, resigning himself to what he figures is going to be a regular occurrence for the rest of the day before Riku’s face is suddenly in front of his, only inches away, causing Iori to freeze. “What do you want to do first, Iori?”

“Ah,” Iori fumbles for words suddenly, “Anything is fine with me, Nanase-san.”

“Roller coasters, then,” is Riku’s instant response, and they’re off. Iori doesn’t mind the wait times, and it doesn’t seem like Riku does either, as they converse easily. Iori learns that Riku likes sitting at the back of roller coasters, because his father had once told him, years ago, that the back of the roller coaster was the most fun, as it rattled around more. He learns that Riku likes to scream through the drops, one hand half over Iori’s as they clutch the bar in front of them and the other raised in glee.   

He also starts learning the difference in Riku’s pouts after they walk off of a particularly thrilling one, Riku burrowing his head against Iori’s shoulder, whining loudly about how Iori doesn’t react.

 “Iori, how do you just...not...scream on roller coasters!?”

 Iori shrugs in response, though with his other shoulder, the one Riku isn’t currently talking to, “It’s a matter of mental preparation, Nanase-san. Once you’ve experienced a fair number of them, you should be able to begin to expect the physical force that you will experienced based on the angle and height of the drop or turns--”

“Iori...you make roller coasters seem...not fun,” Riku cuts Iori off, the look on his face making it obvious that he had tuned out long moments before, and Iori ends up repenting by treating Riku to lunch before they finish going through the rest of the rides Riku wants to, the worst of it being the log ride, where Iori proceeds to spend the next hour pointedly ignoring the cling of Riku’s wet shirt across his back, thankful the sun burned bright overhead to both dry their clothes and excuse the flush across his face.

He also ends up buying them cotton candy, noticing the way Riku’s eyes had slid across the concession stand with longing before tearing his gaze away, about to direct Iori elsewhere. Riku looks confused when Iori pulls away from him briefly, but the look of utter delight on his face when he returns is enough for Iori.

Riku tears into pieces of sugary fluff as they walk towards the arcade, mindlessly chattering and when Iori turns to Riku to catch his reaction as the arcade comes into view, Riku catches Iori’s gaze with a bright smile, a wisp of cotton candy caught on the edge of his mouth. Iori reaches for it without thinking, his thumb brushing the side of Riku’s mouth to dislodge the sugar, and Riku blinks in surprise, reaching up to press a piece of cotton candy against Iori’s lips and Iori instinctively opens his mouth to bite into it, his teeth scraping the edge of Riku’s fingertips.

They stand like this for a long moment, eyes caught on each other’s, before Iori forces his gaze away, feeling a blush creep over his face, “Ah, shall we go in, then, Nanase-san?”

“O-oh, yeah! Let’s!” Riku responds hastily, ducking his head and taking a few quick steps so he’s walking just ahead of Iori, though as he slips past, Riku’s hand catches the end of Iori’s sleeve so the younger is pulled along, and Iori can’t help the hand that comes up to cover his mouth as embarrassment further settles in.

 

* * *

 

Their time in the arcade is something of a wreck.

Iori has to physically restrain Riku from wasting too much money on one of the rigged games with an exasperated sigh of, “Nanase-san, these games are set up so that very few people succeed, you’re not going to win anyway” and he’s met with Riku puffing up in front of him, shooting back with a competitive glare,

“Then why don’t you try?”

And something in Iori makes him puff back at Riku and spit out a “Fine. But not this game.” Riku sticks his tongue out in childish retaliation but lets Iori circle around until he settles at one of the games with the ridiculous fake guns with cork pellets where one shoots soda cans down.

Riku watches with curiosity as Iori tests each of the toy guns in his hand before settling on one— and proceeds to hit every can in the row over, much to the vendor’s dismay as he hands Iori the stuffed rabbit prize to the stoic faced student, who proceeds to dump the rabbit in Riku’s arms and mumbles how the sights on the gun were off.

They’re somewhat shooed out of the arcade, likely in fear that Iori will wipe them out of prizes; and Iori doesn’t bother making it clear that the only thing he excels in is shooting guns, and something else, like the basketball toss, would probably result in him hitting himself in the face. Having hours of military-like shooting practice ingrained into him was one thing, but high school sports that he put the most minimal effort in during P.E. classes, was another.

“Iori.”

“Yes, Nanase-san?” Iori looks towards the other at his name being spoken, following the line of Riku’s arm, his shirt crinkled where it had dried, down to his hand where Riku is gesturing at the sunset, and Iori is stunned for a moment, frozen in place as he’s momentarily reminded of their first meeting.

Except it’s more. This time, unlike in the flower shop, where Iori’s vision had been restricted by the walls of the establishment and limited to what he could see through the windows past Riku’s overwhelming presence, the sky is limitless, inhibited only by his own eyesight. And to him, it’s testament to how far his relationship with Riku has progress, how comfortable he has become to be able to look past blinding light and intangible walls to admire what rests in front of him, steadier than anything he has experienced in the last many years of his life.

It terrifies him.

 

* * *

 

What doesn’t scare him in the slightest, though, is the haunted house that RIku insists on pulling them through (“Last thing Iori! I promise!”). The decorations are all clearly fake, and after having been in the front lines of assassinations more than once, Iori doesn’t think there’s anything any amusement park could throw at him that could make his blood pound in his years, his hands tremble, his knees shaking to the point he’s afraid they’ll give out on him. 

If anything, it’s Riku’s hand sliding into his own that startles Iori, sparing a quick glance to where Riku’s hand is gripping his, the other twisted in the sleeve of Iori’s shirt, red eyes darting from wall to wall in anticipation.

“Nanase-san...please don’t tell me you’re actually afraid of this…” Iori says slowly, in disbelief, looking to the side at the florist.

Riku turns his head quickly, meeting Iori’s gaze, eyes wide before they’re shifting to the side, “O-of course not...it’s all fake,” he protests, yet even so, his grip on Iori’s hand tightens as another fake ghost passes by overhead and prompts a small smile onto Iori’s face as he begins pulling Riku through the attraction.

Somewhere along the path, their fingers lace through each other’s, though Riku’s hold on Iori’s arm with his other hand doesn’t waver, and when they’re forced through a narrow hallway, Iori is acutely aware of Riku’s breath on the bare skin between his shirt collar and hair.

Though Riku had seemed at least a little frightened of what the Haunted House held, he stays relatively silent through almost the entirety of it, and though none of it affects Iori, there are small moments where Riku startles, pressing closer to Iori. And when they exit, he turns to Iori, his eyes shining with excitement,  
  
“That was fun! Even though you’re no fun at all as usual,” Riku crinkles his nose, just the slightest bit before his sunny disposition returns, beaming at Iori as they walk out of the amusement park, still hand in hand, but Iori can’t find it in him to bring it to attention, not when Riku seems perfectly fine with it, oblivious to the occasional strange look they get in their direction.

Their hands remain connected the entirety of the way back, even as they slip their way through the crowds in the station, even walking down the familiar streets of their part of town, and it’s only when they reach the flower shop, having spent most of the return trip in silence, that Riku pulls his hand free from Iori’s.

“I had fun,” he says with a soft smile, “Thank you for agreeing to accompany me.”

And his voice is so genuine, Iori has to swallow a rush of emotion back before he can respond in kind, “No...thank you for inviting me, Nanase-san. I too, enjoyed myself thoroughly, today.” 

Riku considers Iori’s words for a moment as he unlocks the door, Iori stepping in behind Riku, “I don’t suppose you’d say yes to coming up for a cup of tea, would you?”  
  
Iori smiles ruefully, recalling that he had refused last time as well, “Unfortunately, I’m expected back soon, so I’m afraid I must refuse again.”

“That’s alright, next time, then,” Riku smiles up at Iori before turning to the shelf of flowers next to them, contemplating for a moment before pulling a small selection of yellow blossoms before seeing Iori out the door. He presses the small bundle of stems into Iori’s hands, murmuring “Pansy and yellow tulips, as thanks for today.”

They stand for a long moment like this, facing each other, and Iori can’t hear anything but their breathing. He’s not sure if it’s Riku stepping closer, or if it’s Riku pulling Iori towards him, but before Iori can fully process what’s happening, he’s tilting his head down to be met with soft lips against his own.

The kiss is altogether too short and too sudden, and when they break apart, there’s a light blush dusting Riku’s cheeks as he steps backwards through the door, giving Iori a shy smile before closing the door with perhaps a touch of haste. Iori stands in front of the shop for a long moment, absorbing the past few minute’s events before he can gather enough of his wits about to walk home. As he walks, he taking his phone from his pocket, texting his brother to let Mitsuki know that he’s on his way home before pulling up the browser on his phone, glancing at the flowers in his other hand.

 

* * *

 

The next time they meet up, Iori fears things being awkward between them, but Riku doesn’t let that happen, twining their hands together as if it’s normal, chattering on as if it’s another usual, as if he doesn’t notice how Iori flusters, though the small smirk on Riku’s face begs to differ.

And it does become a normality as the weeks pass. For them to hold hands walking to and fro, for them to exchange soft kisses goodbye.

With the sun high in the sky, beating down on them all in the relentless heat of summer, Iori comes to realize that Riku has become part of his routine. Slipped into Iori’s quiet daily life, brightening it in his own way, with occasionally pointless, sometimes one-sided conversations even though he’s sitting back to back with Iori, who’s hunched studiously over the next year’s course material.

Yet, other times, Iori is starkly aware of Riku’s established presence in his life.

When they’ve just arrived back to the flowershop from one of their more or less frequent dinner dates, and when Iori leans in to kiss Riku goodnight. When Riku pulls Iori into the shop, stepping backwards together until the door clicks shut behind them, though they have yet to separate. When they finally break apart for air, and Iori is overwhelmed as he takes in the slight heave of Riku’s chest, Riku’s exhale warm, the half-lidded look that is cast up at him as he feels fingers playing with the hem of his shirt.

But this time, even as Iori attempts to take another breath of air, Riku is kissing him, stealing away that very attempt as he clutches the front of Iori’s shirt, pulling them further into the shop until Riku’s back is pressed against the door that leads to the apartment upstairs. When the finally separate again, Riku manages to breathe out, right into Iori’s ear as he runs a hand down Iori’s chest, “My brother is on a business trip. Come upstairs this time?”

The second phrase is half-question, half-request, and Iori can’t find the words to answer, instead settling for kissing Riku again once, twice, as he fishes Riku’s keys from the other’s pocket with ease, giving a small smile as he presses them into Riku’s hand, linking their spare hands together.

A soft giggle escapes Riku as he kisses Iori again, brief, before leading the assassin behind the counter and up a narrow stairway Iori has travelled up a few times, though none filled with as much anticipation, enough that the walls feel like they’re threatening to close in on him. But he does his best to ignore it. Ignore the feeling of prying eyes and the nonexistent pressure on the situation, and only on the warmth of Riku’s hand around his own as he’s pulled past the living room to Riku’s room.

Before he can even consider overthinking the situation, Riku’s mouth is on his own the moment the door closes behind Iori, muffling the noise of surprise that escapes Iori. Iori feels Riku’s hands clutch at the front of his shirt, feels the pull of it at his shoulders even as he deepens the kiss, hands settling at Riku’s hips, guiding them back towards and down onto Riku’s bed.

Riku’s hands make their way into Iori’s hair, guiding Iori down the side of his jaw and neck, turning his head to press his cheek against one of Iori’s arms which cage him on the bed. Riku’s ragged breathing suddenly audible has Iori pulling back briefly, feeling concern overtake his thoughts as he takes in the flushed face beneath him, chest heaving, but before he can vocalise anything, Riku shakes his head, pulling Iori back down, mumbling against his lips, “I’m fine, I’m fine...just...kiss me more—”

So rather than formulate words, Iori does. 

———

 Iori has kissed people. Has done far more than kiss, but to him, it has always been empty, even cold, and yet, with Riku, he _burns_.

 Every desperate kiss against his mouth, his bare skin, sears through his body as he matches each of them, relishing in how every sound that escapes Riku’s mouth simultaneously clouds his thoughts yet remains clear in his immediate memory.

Riku’s arms are looped around his neck, and Iori can hear the absolutely wrecked noises that escape Riku with every slow thrust into him, watch each expression that crosses Riku’s face when Iori finally gets a hand around Riku, stroking his redheaded lover first slowly, but with increasing pressure and speed.

Iori can feel hands clawing across his back, slipping down his shoulder-blades in desperation as Riku begs him to go faster, the words intermixed with moans and small noises of pleasure as Iori obliges him, continually mesmerized by Riku’s entire presence.

“Iori,” Riku breathes out, and Iori forces his attention to Riku’s words, doing his utmost best to not be distracted at the way Riku’s lips move around his words, “More, please, Iori—” 

And as much as Iori would like to respond verbally, he can’t. Not when he can barely manage to answer with a kiss that muffles Riku’s moans, feeling Riku’s nails dig into his skin as he begins to pound into the man beneath him. The sound of his own harsh breathing is loud is in his ears when their kiss breaks apart, Riku’s head falling back to expose the long column of his neck, Iori’s name and aimless pleas spilling from Riku’s mouth in broken fragments. Iori ducks his head back down to trail kisses along Riku’s exposed neck, biting and sucking at random intervals, feeling the heat in his veins only spread with every shudder of Riku’s body before Riku is kissing him again, messy but passionate all the same.

“Iori,” Riku calls when they break apart again, panting, “Please— I’m clos— I’m so close, plea— _ah_ ”

Iori picks up where Riku left off, not quite sure how he manages to form a coherent string of words, though manages it all the same even as he grasps at any semblance of being put together, “Nanase-san,” he murmurs against the crook of Riku’s neck and shoulder, “I— I’m the same, I’m close—”

 He’s pulled back up by gentle hands, trembling just slightly in pleasure, loving kisses pressed to his lips, moving along his cheek until Riku’s uneven breaths are in Iori’s ear even as his body tenses, “Iori— Iori, I— ah— I love you—” Riku cries out as he suddenly tightens around Iori, partially curling in on himself as he comes, and Iori feels the last of his own self control shatter, falling after Riku. 

———

Riku’s words don’t register in Iori’s mind until minutes later, as they lay in near silence, face to face, the only sound filling the space between them their breathing. Riku’s eyes are closed, and the only indication that he has’t fallen asleep is the way he leans into Iori’s hand as Iori cards his fingers through Riku’s hair, brushing it away from his face.

I love you. Words Iori hasn’t spoken, let alone heard, with true conviction, in years. It’s not as if he doesn’t, or cannot, love. He loves Pythagoras, for all its chaos. He loves his brother, dearly, possibly the most out of anything in this world. But it’s a different kind of love that now looms over his head, threatening to spill from his heart and mouth from where he has been forcing it down, refusing to accept it.

Iori is startled from his thoughts when a hand settles lightly on his cheek, meets red eyes that blink slowly at him, a small smile curling at the edges of Riku’s lips, and Iori merely ducks his head, overwhelmed, taking in the little laugh that escapes Riku as arms curl around Iori, pulling them closer together, Riku contentedly tucking his chin above Iori’s head.

He’s not sure how long they stay like this, Riku’s breath brushing the top of Iori’s head, soft and steady,  Iori’s ear pressed to Riku’s chest, listening to the sound of his heart beat. He’s a little lost in the wonder of it. Of the steady sound of Riku’s heartbeat because he’s so used to being met with silence when he presses his ear to dead chests, the first few times in regret, and from then on, habit.

“Hey, Iori,” Riku’s voice sounds from both above him and reverberating through his chest, and Iori makes a noncommittal sound in response. “Will you stay, or do you have to go?” 

Iori sighs, leaning heavily into Riku for a moment, thinking of the disaster his absence could lead to before responding reluctantly, “I should go.”

“Mmm okay,” Riku answers him, voice soft pressing his nose into Iori’s hair for a moment before pulling away and sitting up, causing Iori to avert his eyes, and Riku laughs. Riku leans over to gently prompt Iori to look at him, laughing as he presses little kisses against Iori’s lips until Iori caves, letting Riku pull him into sitting position. They stay like this for another long moment, languid kisses and touches until Iori catches sight of the clock past Riku’s head and sighs, kissing Riku firmly before pulling away, about to apologize before he catches the smile on Riku’s lips. 

“There’s a bouquet on the counter downstairs, take it with you.” Riku mentions it offhandedly, though the smile doesn’t waver as Iori gets dressed, not even when Iori leans in to press a last content kiss to Riku’s lips before he really does leave, carefully making sure the shop door is locked behind him as he steps into the night.

 

* * *

 

When Iori manages to get all the locks undone and steps into the apartment, it’s quiet save for Yamato’s many computers, softly whirring in the silence, their owner seemingly asleep, hunched over a laptop. Iori walks over, dropping a blanket over Yamato’s shoulders and moves the can of beer out of immediate danger of being knocked over. He glances at the screens briefly, taking note of the smiling face and gentle lavender eyes that are scattered across a couple of the monitors, sometimes alone, sometimes pressed lovingly against tan skin and equally warm eyes, and wonders if this is the next face to be painted in red across Iori’s mind.

Forcing himself to turn away, Iori quietly hurries to shower before heading to his room, flicking on the light, feeling something turn a little in his stomach when he spots the folder sitting on his desk. He opts to ignore it as he takes note of the flowers Riku has sent home with him: red tulips and sweet peas, surrounded by an intricately linked ring of white and red chrysanthemum, and Iori admires Riku’s handiwork before the folder below the flowers finally overtakes his thoughts. He slips it from under the bouquet, images of white hair and gentle eyes flashing briefly in his mind as he undoes the string tying the folder shut, pulling out what he is well aware is his next assignment.

Iori flips through the contents mechanically, first through assignment details of the contractor, of fast money Iori cares very little about, and would not at all if it were not his means of life. While he is able to attend university thanks to Yamato’s expert hacking skills, money for general living expenses is harder to come by, so assignments like this are impossible to pass up.

He frowns down at the next page, warnings, or perhaps the reason behind the target’s selection, and the sheer amount in reward. The target is in close contact with a member of TRIGGER, and Iori can feel his face twisting in displeasure thinking about the elite government task force, infamous amongst assassin circles for having an incredibly high success rate of criminal elimination.

He reads a couple of special instructions on one of the later pages before flipping to the part that matters most to him: the target.

And stops, feeling a sense of dread fill him. As he had figured, the target was apparently in what was assumed to be romantic relations with an unknown person, and to Iori, targets associated with people were the hardest to deal with. He had made the mistake of sticking around, once, after he had sniped a pitiful excuse of a man. Had been rooted in place as he watched through his rifle’s scope as the man’s wife had come home to her husband’s body, a neat hole through his head and the pool of blood under the only indications he was dead. Had felt his fingers begin to shake as the realization of what he had done hit him for the first time in years, and the consequences it brought upon others.

He thinks of happy smiles flashing across Yamato’s monitors, and steels himself as he tugs the photograph paperclipped to the back of the packet out.

And lets the photo, face filled with laughter and love, slip from his fingers as his heart falls with it.

  
Target: _Nanase Riku, 21_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd as usual by [Seigyoku](archiveofourown.org/users/seigyoku)


	4. Chapter 4

_[september-october]_

 

* * *

  

Iori finds himself in a strange limbo of too calm yet beginning to fray at the edges. School becomes even more a monotonous chore that he can’t despise because it provides some mental relief from the matter that has been weighing heavily on his mind from the moment he was able to process it, playing with the boundaries of his sanity.

While he has always been notable for his ability to conceal his true thoughts and emotions, he knows he’s beginning to slip up when even Riku has begun to pick up on that something may be wrong with Iori.

“You’re distracted,” Riku says aloud, one day, when they’re sitting together at lunch, in silence up until then, Iori merely pushing his food around his plate. “What’s wrong?” He questions, leaning forward in an attempt to get a look at Iori’s face.

The assassin merely puts a small smile on his face, flicking Riku on the forehead, “Stressing about exams,” he lies easily, though his hands tremble, just a little, as he walks to the library after they bid each other goodbye, the soft little kiss Riku left on Iori’s cheek feeling as if it’s burning through flesh and bone.

If anything, Riku having noticed makes Iori feel even worse, makes his resolve weaken further.

Short, cheery text messages, littered liberally with emoji and excessive punctuation.

Sprigs of geranium and zinnia twisted into the strap of his book bag when he manages to peel his face off his textbooks, where he had fallen asleep in the library, an occurrence becoming more and more common as he spends nights back home staring at the ceiling.

 

* * *

 

To top it off, Pythagoras begins to express worry.

Iori is nothing if not efficient, with an air of cold calculation approaching cruelty. He’s aware that he has a reputation to uphold, one that has likely saved his life more than once, perhaps even allowed the slightest of comforts for his brother and their extended ‘family’. Said reputation has been flawless, until now.

When Mitsuki had approached Iori as he listlessly poking at his dinner, Iori had dismissed it as his brother just worrying over him, as per usual, though perhaps a bit more vocal about it than usual. Even so, when Iori had denied his brother’s worries, Mitsuki had only given him a thoughtful look, coupled with a smile tinged with sadness before leaving Iori be.

It was Nagi that had tipped Iori off that Pythagoras, or at least Mitsuki, thought something off with Iori. While Nagi and Iori normally coexisted in relative silence in regards to each other, it was always understood that they, at the very heart of things, trusted each other. So when Nagi had invited Iori to the shooting range after one of many near sleepless night, Iori braced himself for the worst.

“Iori,” Nagi starts, and Iori lowers the gun in his hands.

“Yes, Rokuya-san?” He asks, aware that his voice is tinged with resignation, yet too tired to hide it.

“Do you trust us?” Nagi questions, voice surprisingly serious.

Iori balks a little at the question, wondering why it’s even a question— “Of course I do. With my life.”

Nagi glances to the side, contemplating the targets down the lane, “I trust Mitsuki with my life. And Yamato.” Sharp blue eyes fix on Iori for a second before returning to their previous place of focus, “But Iori has always been a little different. I trust Iori, also, with my life, but I think Iori has never been willing to place his life in any of Pythagoras’ hands. Though for fear of why, I do not know.”

Nagi unloads the gun, setting it down before he walks out of the building, deep in thought and leaving a mildly confounded ace sniper behind.

There had been but a single bullseye, and it had been Nagi’s.

 

* * *

 

Iori didn’t think things could actually get worse. 

Things most definitely get worse. 

He and Riku are at the shop, a slow afternoon, Iori catching up on lecture notes he had accidentally slept through; or well, attempting to. Riku’s hands are warm and gentle as the work the knots out of Iori’s neck and shoulders, and Riku murmuring nonsense into his ear is doing nothing to help his focus.

They’re startled out of their comfortable companionship with the bell above the door chimes and Riku suddenly jumps back, hastily heading into the front of the shop, soon followed by a happy yelp of “Ten-nii!”

Before Iori even has a chance to think about escaping through the tiny window 8 feet above the ground of the back room, Riku is already returning, chattering nonstop to ‘Ten-nii’ who stops in his tracks upon seeing Iori. Riku doesn’t seem to notice anything wrong, releasing the pale-haired man he had been clutching on to to bound over to Iori, wrapping his arms around Iori’s neck and pressing his cheek into Iori’s hair.

“Ten-nii! This is Iori— Iori meet Ten-nii!”

“Pleased to meet you,” Iori offers awkwardly after a moment of wary silence, trying his very best to not simply bolt past the two, out the door, and run far, far away.

‘Ten-nii’ evaluates him with a cold gaze, glances up towards where Riku has his chin contentedly tucked on top of Iori’s head, before it drops back down to the assassin, and Iori feels as if his soul and each and every one of the crimes he has committed is being bared to the man in front of him.

“Pleased to meet you as well, Iori...now if you don’t mind…” He trails off, appraising the situation before him once again, and Iori isn’t sure if he’s merely imaging the disdain, or if it’s really there. Ten’s face is unreadable to the point it unnerves Iori greatly, considering his training to be able to read facial expressions from miles away, with no auditory context.

“Ah— I was just going...Ri— Nanase-san, I’ll see you tomorrow.” He makes his excuses, his words sounding stilted even in his own ears, bidding them a good night as he leaves quickly, just short of fleeing. 

Without a doubt, Iori had just escaped from the hands of Kujou Ten, the rumored center-piece of the infamous government hitman team, TRIGGER.

 

* * *

 

While Iori is reluctant to go over to the florist’s again any time soon, every one of his self-preservation instincts screaming at him to stay away, Riku is a force to be reckoned with.

He apologizes for not warning Iori that his brother would be returning that day, and promises that Ten will be out on business for a couple of days, and only once he confirms, through Yamato’s intelligence systems that these two things indeed line up, does Iori return to the little shop.

The longer he sits— studying as Riku tends to the shop, only occasionally coming to the back to steal short little kisses as he grabs a roll of ribbon here, to peer over Iori’s shoulder briefly as he gathers a bundle of bright tissue paper there— the more relaxed he becomes, and he’s honestly too tired to care any longer. 

Iori’s not sure exactly when it happens, but lured by the warm sun filtering in through the window and the soft chatter from the front of the shop, he falls asleep. He’s only aware of this when Riku gently shakes him away, apologetic, saying that Iori had looked tired. And Iori is. Enough so that he doesn’t argue, merely thanking Riku, sleepily pressing his face into Riku’s neck and kissing him languidly under the light of the moon before he heads out and to his own place.

 

_1:16 AM_

 

Far later than anyone in Pythagoras should be awake. While Iori intended on spending the day studying, the other members of their squad went out scoping out the location of a potential mission, to deem its risks low enough to be profitable.

What Iori doesn’t expect, as he carefully, slowly, redoes the locks on their door, is to turn around only to spot Yamato’s hunched form in front of his many monitors, a can of beer perhaps a bit too close to one of the keyboards.

“Nikaidou-san…” Iori starts as he walks over, dropping his bag, looking at the screens in front of them. “Ah,” he starts, recognizing the white hair and soft smile, “A target? I remember their face from before.”

Yamato doesn’t look up, only clicking through a social media profile, occasionally opening an image here and there. Of all the members of Pythagoras, Iori knows the least about Yamato. He’s secretive about his past life, before the formation of Pythagoras, and Iori personally finds Yamato the most frightening member. While he may lack the athletic firepower of Mitsuki or Nagi, or Iori’s own uncanny gunman abilities, all their talents would be wasted without their mastermind, Yamato.

When Yamato stays silent, Iori is perfectly willing to drop the subject. Yamato likely knows Iori and Mitsuki’s past, considering his extensive research ability, but he has never once brought it up in front of them, and Iori is happy to leave Yamato his privacy. It’s an unspoken agreement between them all. They don’t take joy in their occupation, because it is simply that: an occupation. A means to live.

So Iori is startled when Yamato suddenly speaks, just as Iori is about to turn away. “No. An ex-boyfriend.”  
  
Iori isn’t sure whether to be more shocked over the fact that Yamato had revealed part of his past, or over the information itself. Luckily, Yamato continues before Iori can formulate a proper response.

“I was stupid, Ichi. Young and stupid, and I fell in love with him. But he had it worse. Of course. He fell in love with a false identity, someone who doesn’t exist, and I faked my death because I couldn’t let him find out.”  
  
Yamato opens up an image Iori had seen once before, briefly, and he takes the opportunity to look at it more closely. In this, lavender eyes are closed in laughter, leaning back against the broad chest of a man who looks down at Yamato’s ex-lover with the kindest of smiles, amber eyes filled with love. Their hands are intertwined over the white-haired man’s chest, and Iori catches the glint of gold rings glittering on their fingers, and understands, looking down at Yamato’s drawn posture, the way his eyes are fixed on only one person in the photo.

Iori quietly removes Yamato’s beer, and the elder doesn’t complain as Iori disposes of it before heading to his room in silence. He thinks it kind of funny, in some sick twisted way, as if they’re the butt of a terrible joke the world has decided to play on them. After all, what were the chances that both he and Yamato, brought together by mere chance, had to give up who they loved to TRIGGER.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not gonna lie 50% of my lack of motivation was because I fucking lost my list of flowers/meanings when I updated my laptop’s OS. 
> 
> Other than that, I have no excuse for a month and a half of silence on this. Or the fact that I'm not pleased with this, but I don't want to keep dragging myself through this chapter.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the final 'chapter' has also been posted.

_ [november] _

 

* * *

 

 

He can’t push off his decision for much longer. Exams have been a thankful excuse the past few weeks, and some of the weight of guilt eases from his shoulders as he wholeheartedly throws himself into studying for exams, claiming he wants to get as much from his education as possible, and that it’s a necessary part of his guise. Yamato relays this to their client, who is thankfully understanding, more than he should be in relation to assassins he’s hired, Iori thinks.

The moment his exams have passed, Iori notices the agitation resting upon Pythagoras, and once again, the guilt is back. And he no longer has any excuses. As each day passes, he notices the increasing number of looks between the other three members of their unit, their concern genuine as they steal glances at Iori when they think him immersed in his studies.

However, relief comes in the form of another job, this time one that happens to be time sensitive, and Iori has never been so glad to hear that he needed to end another life. 

The assignment should be easy. Set up from afar, infiltrate a company party with the usual duo, finish off the client as Mitsuki and Nagi cover for Iori, and get out. 

‘Should,’ ends up being the keyword. Yamato later claims the mistake to be his, but Iori knows it’s his own fault that he doesn’t notice the erratic movement of one of the other guests, one aiming to take their kill in a far less eloquent manner, when he suddenly unveils a pair of semi-automatics and begins firing wildly.

The windows nearby shatter and the party is thrown into chaos; people fall into panic and Iori is so shocked, his focus crumbles, and he loses sight of the target completely amongst the masses. He’s so distracted in trying to recover his target he doesn’t notice until the third time Yamato yells into his ear-piece, demanding information.

“Nagi! Where are you—”

“MI-TSU-KI WHERE DID YOU GO—”

“YAMATO WHAT’S HAPPENING I CAN’T SEE ANYTHING—”

“Ichi! Ichi, what happened to the targ— holY SHIT THOSE ARE MILITARY POLICE— GET OUT, GET OUT OF THERE  _ NOW— _ ”

Iori forces himself to ignore the other three, well aware that while he may be part of the unit, he wasn’t truly part of their team, only a cover, an addition that made their lives perhaps just a little easier on missions. Reassuring himself that his brother will be fine, trusts that years of training will allow them to each fulfill their roles, Iori turns his attention back to his scope, this time able to spot the target now that the area has cleared out significantly.

Pythagoras is still causing chaos in his ear piece but he tunes them out, setting up carefully before taking a single shot, his aim true, before he’s almost stumbling over himself to rapidly pack up and get out of the vicinity as fast as he possibly can, because now he can hear the sirens of law enforcement vehicles.

Iori is the first back at the apartment, and somehow, despite his worry, exhaustion manages to overtake any other emotion, and he falls asleep on the couch where he had intended to wait for all the others to return.

 

* * *

 

He’s not quite sure why, but when he hears the low murmur of voices at the kitchen table, he continues to feign sleep, his eyes opening just a fraction.

Mitsuki sits in one of the chairs, hair disheveled, what appears to be a graze cutting a line across his cheek. One arm his already covered in gauze and bandaging, secured against his chest, and Iori watches as Yamato kneels on the floor before him, quietly scolding him though his voice is too gentle and soft, filled with concern as he dresses the wound.

Iori watches as Mitsuki rests his uninjured hand gently on top of Yamato’s head, pointing over to where Nagi is sleeping on the floor by Mitsuki’s feet, watches as they both shake in silent laughter, and he realizes, then, that he has become a liability.

He should have predicted this situation. Would have, in the past. If he had been anywhere near his usual condition, he knows he would have foreseen it. Yet, the time he had foregone his many simulations, failed to carry out his mission out as he should. It proved to him, as he had feared, that not properly preparing for a mission would cause casualties, and not to him. Never to him, hiding behind the safety of his scope, kilometers away.

He watches as Yamato helps Mitsuki stand, notices his brother’s face contort in pain and feels a nauseating weight sink into his stomach as Mitsuki pretends to brush it off as nothing, and knows then that he won’t let such a thing happen to Mitsuki again, not if the power to prevent it lies in Iori’s hands.

 

* * *

Just the next day, Riku texts Iori, messages littered with emoji and an attached image of petunia. Iori agrees to Riku’s request, and they meet that afternoon in a bustling cafe, filled to the brim with students avoiding the outside chill that has begun to settle.

Once they’re seated comfortably in a small booth, hands wrapped around warm drinks, Riku leans heavily into Iori, complaining about his day, rambling a little, though Iori lets him, knowing Riku will get to the heart of the matter once he’s calmed down.

“...Ten-nii and I fought, the other day,” Riku finally says, quietly, after a moment of silence.

Iori makes a noncommittal noise in response, and Riku continues, in the same quiet tone.

“We haven’t fought in years...not like this...not since our parents died,” he finishes quietly, perhaps a bit sadly.

Though Iori has a suspicion, he can’t help but ask, “About what, did you two disagree?”

Riku stays quiet a moment longer, before mumbling into his latte, “You. Ten-nii says you’re not trustworthy, but that’s not fair, because he doesn’t know you...Not like I do.”

Iori kind of wants to laugh. He’s fairly certain Kujou Ten doesn’t know exactly who Iori is, but of course his instincts would prove him correct if Ten were able to get his hands on any of Iori’s records, had they not been destroyed. 

“Well, I’m glad you defended my honor, but you should amend things with your brother,” Iori manages lightly, though that borderline-hysterical urge to laugh still remains, with the knowledge that he’s causing more suffering.

Riku makes an irritated face in response, mumbling that maybe he will, and Iori feels momentary relief. Hearing his phone ring in the telltale tone that Mitsuki had set for himself, Iori checks his messages before making his excuses.

“Will you come by tonight? We were supposed to spend the day together…” Riku pouts up at Iori, grasping his hand and not letting go until Iori agrees, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to Riku’s forehead before heading back to the apartment where he knows the Pythagoras members are waiting.

 

* * *

 

The moment he steps through the door, he’s ambushed by almost-six-feet of blonde assassin, who happens to wailing at maximum volume about the “ _GRIEVOUS BETRAYAL,_ ” which happens to come in the form of Mitsuki and Yamato sporting matching scowls as they look at where Nagi is draped over Iori who merely continues his attempts to remove his shoes as best he can, calmly asking Nagi to elaborate.

Nagi thankfully detaches himself from the sniper, collapsing to the floor in dramatics. “Mitsuki and Yamato won’t let me!”   
  
“Won’t let you what?” Iori asks with more patience than he’s felt in weeks, arranging his shoes neatly in their place.   
  
Nagi scoots his way into Iori’s line of sight, glittering blue peering up at him, “They don’t think I can handle it!”   
  
“Handle what?” he responds, with perhaps just a touch of irritation, and Nagi takes notice of the slight slip instantly.

“SEE MITSUKI, YAMATO— IORI JUST SNAPPED AT ME. HE WOULD NEVER DO SUCH A THING IF HE WAS OK.”

Iori sighs and steps over Nagi, “Would someone please explain.”

Yamato and Mitsuki shuffle in place, looking to each other in silent communication before Yamato finally speaks up. “Nagi wants to finish off the assassination job, because he thinks we’re overloading you. Mitsu says we should just trust you. I agree, since you’ve never failed us before, and that we’re sure you have your reasons.” 

Suddenly, Iori can’t help but smile, just the slightest bit. “Don’t worry, Nikaidou-san, Nii-san...and Rokuya-san, thank you for concern. But I’ll be finishing the job tonight.”

  
  
  


 

 

 

* * *

 

  
  
  
  
  


Iori is a long range specialist, a sniper in layman’s terms. He can shoot 500 meters easily, 800 accurately, and 1100 at his best. He has a kill record of 71 solo kills and 32 assists. Tonight, he packs none of his beloved military-grade sniper rifles; only a simple handgun, a SIG P226 Rokuya-san had gifted Iori on his last birthday.

After reassuring Pythagoras that he was indeed fine, Iori locks himself in his room, filtering through his case materials, running through his plans a few more times. This time, he takes no chances.

Nanase-san. Iori hesitates over the collection of dried flowers he’s amassed, carefully laying them out across his desk.

No, Riku. Iori places his own personal items: phone, ID (though fake), amongst the flowers and smiles, just briefly.

He leaves with just his gun and his ear-piece in place, Yamato shooting him a lazy thumbs up, sharp eyes following Iori out the door. Mitsuki and Nagi are stationed a few blocks away, having insisted on being nearby when Iori had explained he wasn’t going to be sniping, but that he’d take care of this by hand.

There had been no point in hiding the truth, any longer. Despite the fear in him as he had finally explained his lack of professionalism in regards to the case, it only made Nagi and Mitsuki more insistent in providing back up. 

“Sorry, Nii-san,” he murmurs as his hand rests on the door handle to the little flower shop, and Mitsuki’s voice chirps back in his ear, 

“Don’t worry about it, Iori! We have your back!”

Only Yamato had been quieter than the other two, and Iori had refused to meet their leader’s eyes in both fear of the pity that he knew was there and that Yamato would be able to read into his very soul.

Riku bounds at Iori as he steps into the shop, embracing him on sight, and Iori gently pries the florist off of him. Red eyes study Iori briefly, and a warm hand takes Iori’s own, leading him upstairs. As they walk up now familiar steps, Iori’s eyes trace Riku’s outline, and he reaches up with his spare hand to his ear-piece, ignoring Yamato’s sudden insistent voice when he hears the static.

“Ichi. Ichi, what the fuck are you doi—” is all Yamato manages before Iori turns his ear-piece off.   
  


 

 

* * *

 

  
  
  
  


Kujou Ten, the youngest member of the special forces in history, sits in TRIGGER’s office, surrounded by papers and files, reading through articles of the most recent incident of importance.

A murder case. He flips through the pages in distaste as he takes note of the supposed perpetrators.

The rumored assassination unit, Pythagoras, was presumed to be involved, and Ten is well aware of their prowess. Frightening because of their lack of true connection to anyone, not even in the underground, as they choose to be independently contracted. 

“Pythagoras, huh,” Gaku says aloud from across the room, leaning back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling.

Ryuu stands, walking to peer over Ten’s shoulder at the case file in his hands. “We’ve been trying for almost a year now, yet we have little to no information on them...only suspects as to who the members are.”

Ten looks up at Ryuu with a frown, “Did you grab the files I asked for? For the possible connection in this town?”

Ryuu hands Ten the file in his hands, smiling, “Calm down, Ten, of course I got the files.” His smile falters a little as Ten opens it immediately, “Ah...be warned. It’s kind of disturbing...I’m surprised such a thing isn’t more well known, though it makes sense, since the files were hidden well.”

Ten begins poring over the file, noticing instantly what Ryuu was warning him off. Two kids, aged five and nine, had slaughtered their parents, a gruesome murder, Ten notes as he takes in the description of the crime scene and the photos attached.

To make matters worse, amongst the police unit that had investigated the case, there had been a detective presumably turned traitor who disappeared with the two kids not long after the crime, all three of their identities completely erased, and none of the three had been seen since. 

Kidnapping, Ten figures, with disgust as he flips past irrelevant information about the investigation process before he suddenly pauses, staring at the photo before him.

He’s seen one of the kids.

The dark hair, the emotionless face, the haunted eyes, and feeling his blood run cold, Ten looks below the photo to the names of the kids—

And shoots out of his chair, clipping his gun in place even as he’s sprinting out of the office, Gaku and Ryuu fumbling over themselves to follow as they shout after him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

  
  


Iori follows Riku into the the other’s room, shutting the door as they walk through, his heart and head numb. 

He turns to see pale hands reaching for him and walks to the figure sitting on the bed, closing his eyes as they cup his face, pulling him down until lips meet his own as he unholsters his handgun in practiced motion, and pulls the trigger as the tip of the silencer touches Riku’s hair. 

And the last of Riku that Iori sees through his tears, as he pulls his gun away with a shaking hand and steps backwards, is the color red, spread in a grotesquely graceful manner across the white of Riku’s bed, fine strands fanning out and darkening, staining a pale hand, tracing a thin line from lips Iori has kissed countless times. This red is not beautiful. Not like the sunset that paints the sky, or like the roses that sit downstairs.

He contemplates the gun in his hands when he hears footsteps downstairs, thundering up the stairway. And raises his weapon once more.  

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a real 'chapter,' per say, so it's been posted simultaneously with Part V.

_ [january] _

 

* * *

 

The sun is just beginning to rise, as Ten walks into TRIGGER’s office. He mechanically sits, and opens his newest case file to begin working on it.

When Gaku and Ryuu come in, hours later, they find Ten sitting stone stiff, merely staring at the case file before him. Ryuu places a cup of tea by Ten’s hand, Gaku a single stem of aster.

“‘Wishing things had happened differently,’” Ten recites quietly, and Ryuu looks at Gaku, horrified. Even so, sharp grey eyes stay fixed on Ten, and after a moment he begins to break. Bit by bit, shoulders tighten as Ten hunches into himself, hands fisting into the material of his pants, and cries.

  
  


* * *

 

 

_ 7 January, 2XXX _

  
_ LOCAL FLOWER SHOP OWNER FOUND DEAD, COLLEGE STUDENT GONE MISSING. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to post a glossary of all the flower meanings. But I lost my list when I updated my laptop's software, so that's not going to happen. Also just because, I'm not even going to lie, I'm glad to be done with this, and just before my midterms as well...Thanks for everybody's support, since I'm really not fond of writing multichapter =A=;;


End file.
